


The Answer to a Question

by riotcow



Series: It Started With a Favor Between Friends [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Discipline, Dubious Consent, Gun Kink, Impact Play, John's gun, M/M, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riotcow/pseuds/riotcow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their encounter with Molly, John discovers that he and Sherlock still need to work some things out. John thinks that the best way to work things out probably involves a gun. After all, this is Sherlock. Pure smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Answer to a Question

The next sea change in their relationship came shortly after their first encounter with Molly.

Both John and Sherlock had been extremely pleased by the outcome of that evening’s experiment, and John had expressed their appreciation to Molly along with the hope that she would consider revisiting the arrangement. Once again, the often-mousy pathologist inflamed John’s libido with the unrestrained eagerness of her response, and he walked away shaking his head. He was still astounded at how much of Molly Hooper he had formerly missed, and the irony that Sherlock “Asperger” Holmes had been the one to see it in her.

So John was still wrapping his brain around this latest development -- how did this work? He and Sherlock were… mates, in whichever sense of the word, and Molly was their sometimes-girlfriend? John wasn’t sure how to describe his complicated sexual affairs any more, but he did know that he had started a running mental inventory of dirty things that he looked forward to doing to Molly Hooper along with some help from Sherlock.

The whole Molly thing had turned out to have a definite kinky feel to it. As domineering as Sherlock could be in everyday life, he’d never even tried it when approaching John for sex… he clearly _liked_ having John take charge. He liked to wrestle with John, it was true, but generally Sherlock initiated all their new activities and then John grabbed the reigns and took over in his grouchy, competent way. While they each found themselves grappled or pinned down by the other at least once or twice a week, the truth was that it was always Sherlock on the bottom when they suddenly shifted into the good old-fashioned _sex_ segment of any evening’s unplanned entertainment.

It wasn’t that John hadn’t noticed. It was just that topping came so naturally to him that he didn’t think about it all that hard. On some level, It just seemed obvious to him that the great Sherlock Holmes would roll over for him once they were both experiencing some tumescence.

Unfortunately, however, it wasn’t always so straightforward. What he noticed first, a couple of weeks after their highly successful foray into the world of threesomes, was that one Friday morning there wasn’t any milk for John’s morning tea. He knew for a fact that they’d had almost two liters the previous evening. He had long ago caught on that this was one of Sherlock’s go-to strategies for when he wanted to pick a fight, so John frowned at the fridge, wondering why Sherlock was in the mood to tangle.

Of course it escalated from there. John really did try to ignore it, since he knew that it was intentional, but dammit, Sherlock really knew how to get under his skin. He was rude to all of the service-people and waitstaff that they encountered as they moved through their day, he stuck John with the bill for every cab ride and incidental expense, and he insulted and dismissed John himself at every turn. It was the sort of behavior that John would tolerate on a case or when Sherlock was truly out of control of himself for some reason or another, but that he no longer put up with in the day-to-day.

Now they were finally home again and John was counting his breaths like his shrink had taught him, in order to avoid laying his gorgeous, narcissistic flatmate out on the living room floor with a black eye and a split lip just like he deserved.

“Tea,” Sherlock ordered imperiously, throwing his coat over John’s chair.

John froze and grit his teeth for a moment, then with a rueful shake of his head he suddenly started moving again. Without a word, he put the kettle on, his hands moving swiftly on auto-pilot through the familiar motions. Then he stood stock still and waited for it to boil, his arms crossed, his expression stony.

Sherlock continued to move about the flat, checking in on various experiments and rifling through some of his sheet music, looking for something. John watched him go about his business, then when the kettle was ready, he prepared a cup of tea and took it over to Sherlock.

“Here’s your tea, you _dick_ ,” John said, and Sherlock reached to accept the cup; John dropped it just before Sherlock’s fingers touched the saucer. Sherlock instinctively lunged to rescue the teacup, and John lashed out and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, using Sherlock’s predictable momentum to carry him in a full circle around John’s twisting torso, and then to slam him face-first into the fancy wallpaper by the window. This knocked the breath out of him at the same time that John twisted Sherlock’s upturned wrist into a nasty predicament hold. The abandoned teacup fell to the floor and shattered.

Sherlock was visibly stunned for a second. John knew it was a rare thing that Sherlock was grappled too quickly for his lightning-fast hard drive to process, but he was pretty sure he’d managed it.

“Now, Sherlock. Would you mind telling me what you’ve been on about all day?” John asked calmly from over Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing up a few degrees on his bent wrist, until the taller man grunted.

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Sherlock answered snottily in spite of his precarious position.

John gave another shove and Sherlock hitched to try to catch his breath through the pain. “Are you _sure_ you want to continue being a smart ass right now, Sherlock?”

A sweat had broken out across Sherlock’s brow, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. “Not… _entirely_ sure, no,” he tried next, the fingers of his free hand scrabbling lightly against the wall in an involuntary motion. “But pretty sure.”

John gave one last wrench and Sherlock gasped loudly, trying and failing to twist out of John’s grip for a moment before he subsided and blurted, “John, enough!” John let up about halfway, letting Sherlock back down off of his tiptoes where he’d been driven for a moment, and Sherlock panted, his cheek pressed against the wall.

“Let’s try again, shall we? Why have you been trying to provoke me all day? The truth, Sherlock, or I swear I will break your wrist. I have had enough of your petulance, you whinging little child.”

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip for just a moment. John rattled him hard against the wall, knocking some of the breath back out of him. “Stop _thinking_ , start _talking_ ,” he prompted warningly.

“Maybe I wanted you to do _this_ ,” Sherlock blurted, his pale eyes wide and strangely guileless.

Ah. Predictable, probably. “You could have just bloody well asked,” John groused, letting himself press his erection into Sherlock’s hip. John obviously didn’t mind the roughhousing. It was all the shitty behavior beforehand that he wasn’t so keen on.

Sherlock gulped air. “No. It’s better this way. Better when you’re actually pissed off at me.”

John made a thoughtful sound, making sure to hold Sherlock so that his wrist would still be protesting, a little pain to help keep his unruly mind focused. “Why? Why is it better when I’m actually pissed off? I’d like to understand that bit.”

Sherlock looked strangely uncertain as he continued to pant from a combination of adrenaline, physical strain and growing arousal. He clearly hadn’t been been prepared for this line of questioning. John gave another twist on his wrist to motivate his thinking, and Sherlock yelped loudly in response.

“I don’t know, I’m sorry! It’s just... it shuts my brain down more fully, this way.” His pupils twitched rapidly as he reasoned, then nodded resolutely. “Yes, that’s it, John. When you’re angry you get rougher, you like taking me down a rung and sometimes it actually shuts up all the endless bloody chatter in my bloody head for a decently long moment.”

John blinked, taking that in. Well, it was basically true, wasn’t it? One of the things that John had come to truly love about fucking another man was that he didn’t have to worry about actually hurting Sherlock…

… so that he could cut loose.

Which Sherlock clearly liked. A _lot_. Maybe even more than John had realized.

John smiled in tight amusement. “Huh. Have I been giving you too long a leash again, Sherlock?” he asked conversationally, and was rewarded by a sharp shudder that moved all the way through Sherlock’s tensed body. “I get it, I do. You’re worried that maybe you’ve been misreading things; maybe I don’t like it as much as you do. Maybe you’re going to want more than I want to give. Wanting someone -- wanting _me_ \-- is making you _nervous_ , isn’t it, pet?”

John pressed his length against Sherlock’s now, keeping a tight hold on the wrist pinned in between their tense bodies. Sherlock was definitely frozen, trembling, and John was again reminded that Sherlock may be both talented and surprisingly motivated around sex, but John was still the one with all the experience.

Another tweak of the wrist; another loud gasp. “Answer me, Sherlock. I’m not talking to hear my own voice.”

“ _Yes_. Maybe, yes. I don’t know.” Sherlock winced, his voice low and hoarse. “I’ve told you a hundred times that this really isn’t my area.”

At that, John laughed. He suddenly used his free hand to give Sherlock’s head a sharp, unexpected rap against the wall, simultaneously sweeping the taller man’s feet out from under him. Sherlock went down in a boneless heap, and John poked him in the side with a toe, frowning as Sherlock scrambled to get his feet back under him.

“Just stay _down_ , Sherlock. I’m tired of your attitude. This is not going to be a struggle for power tonight, do you understand me? That is _not_ what we’re doing here.”

Sherlock paused on his hands and knees, then after a moment’s consideration he sat back on his heels instead of getting up. The side of his face was lightly mottled from all the impact against the wallpaper and would probably bruise a bit. “Okay, John. I’m still on my knees. What now?”

Whatever it was that John saw on Sherlock’s face, he obviously was not satisfied. He grabbed Sherlock by the back of the neck and shoved him forward, using the flat of his knee to land a blow across Sherlock’s kidney that was sure to be exquisitely painful.

Sure enough Sherlock stayed bent forward this time, choking and gasping to get his breath back after the initial shocked exhale had vented all the air from his lungs. He might piss a little blood, but chances were it’d clear up in a day or two. And clearly tonight, Sherlock needed something special to get his attention.

That seemed to do the trick. When he finally, stiffly sat back up on his heels, he looked a lot more compliant. And wary. And aroused.

“Okay. I’m done,” Sherlock croaked, bracing his hands on his thighs.

And then his head snapped to the side as John backhanded him soundly across the mouth. His eyes watered, and he blinked rapidly to clear them. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his ridiculous lip.

“Are you absolutely, positively _certain_ that you’re done, Sherlock? _Completely_ done?”

Sherlock worked his jaw for a moment, keeping his head down submissively. “Yes, John. I’m absolutely, positively certain,” he replied, as meekly as possible.

“Well thank _god_ ,” John snapped irritably. “You are _impossible_ when you get like this. Now get up, Sherlock, and follow me to my room, where I swear I’m going to beat you with my belt until you cough up a decent apology. Then I’m going to pound you into the fucking bed until you scream my name. I am so over this attitude of yours, and if I need to keep you black and blue around the entire calendar month I’m willing to do it, but you will not continue to disrespect me the way you’ve been doing today.”

Sherlock gaped at him openly through this little speech, but when John turned and stalked up the stairs to his room, Sherlock followed obediently. Once there, John flicked his fingers at Sherlock and muttered something that Sherlock correctly interpreted as meaning that he should become naked. He stripped off swiftly, while John removed his belt from his jeans with practiced motions and stood patiently waiting with it doubled over in his palm.

Sherlock, now nude and with an exposed erection, looked to him questioningly, and John thrust his chin toward the foot of the bed. “Hands on the bed, Sherlock. Lean forward.”

Sherlock did as he was told, his turgid, leaking cock poking into his lower abdomen as he spread his long legs wide and planted himself firmly. He knew that this would certainly turn out to be a good idea, as he’d been hit by John before.

John laid ten stripes across Sherlock’s long, pale back between his bony shoulderblades and down to his angular hips. It took Sherlock a long moment to catch his breath in between each blow, so thundering was the force with which John could lay his belt across Sherlock’s body.

“Am I sick, John?” Sherlock asked breathlessly between the fifth and sixth blow, his fingers splayed wide against the comforter, his arms shaking, his head hanging down between his shoulders.

John felt the weight of the leather belt in the palm of his hand, considering the question. “You have a unique mind, Sherlock, with unique needs. I’m taking care of you as best I can,” he replied evenly, right before stripe number six blossomed bright red across Sherlock’s taut white flank and Sherlock let out his first howl. John paused. “So are you ready to apologize yet, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s sides heaved with the effort to control his breathing. His ribs glistened with sweat, and his hair was a damp mess. “I’m sorry, John. Please forgive me.” His voice was soft and sincere.

John placed a hand over one of the raised welts for a moment; it was already hot to the touch. Sherlock was going to come so hard that his eyes crossed after this was over. “Good. Four more then.” John nodded.

He made sure the post-apology blows were no less severe than the first six had been. After he was done with the belt, John grabbed Sherlock by a handful of his thick curls and flung him the rest of the way onto the bed. Sherlock crawled up toward the top and braced himself against the headboard on his knees, sure of what was coming.

Sure enough, John pulled his prick from his jeans and began to slick it up with a handful of lube from the drawer in the bedside table.

“You get lube tonight, but no fingers,” John warned, climbing onto the bed after Sherlock and positioning himself between Sherlock’s spread feet. Sherlock’s nude body was long and lean, in places surprisingly feminine, and John felt almost overcome with the intensity of his desire for what was coming next. Bright, angry welts decorated Sherlock’s slender back, John Watson’s claim to ownership of this incredible human being; John looked forward to caring for them in the next few days. This daddy-sadist-healer thing that he had going with Sherlock was a little emotionally complicated.

John nudged the head of his cock into place and then pressed forward in one slow but insistent push. He’d always loved anal sex, even during his many years of exclusively sleeping with women, much more than most women would go along with. He certainly didn’t mind that this was a staple of his repertoire with Sherlock. The younger man groaned, his body protesting being opened so quickly, without any fingering first.

Sherlock pushed back in spite of the obvious resistance, eagerly taking John in to the hilt. It was one of the most intoxicating things about Sherlock, the abandon with which he actively participated in his own debauchery. John had never had a lover who was so unapologetically open about his desire to experience pain and humiliation, and John was finding that he was willing to go much further than he’d ever have guessed he would when he had Sherlock Holmes beneath him, rock hard and begging for more.

Begging for John to make it _worse_. Harder. More painful. Dirtier. The previously-asexual Sherlock turned out to be just as much of an addict to intensity and self-abuse in bed as everywhere else in his life. John was glad he was as widely experienced as he was. He was turning out to be well-equipped to handle Sherlock’s extreme tastes.

“Open up, Sherlock,” John growled now, jerking his hips against Sherlock’s to be sure that he was buried as deeply as possible. He dug his fingers into the angry welts, making Sherlock gasp. “ _Fuck_. The deeper I get inside of you, the deeper I want to go. I wish I could tear you apart.” He’d quickly zeroed on various turns of phrase that made Sherlock go weak with desire, and this was definitely foremost among them.

It was a good one, since it just so happened to be true.

John’s strong, steady hands gripped the headboard just outside of Sherlock’s long fingers and he began to thrust, angling his hips to create as much impact as he could each time that his body connected with Sherlock’s.

“Tear me open. _Please_ , John. I _need_ that.” John loved how open Sherlock sometimes became during this. So unlike his usual cryptic bullshit.

“What you _need_ ,” John interrupted, shifting one hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck so that he could press Sherlock down, his face into the pillows, “is to shut the fuck up and take this. I’m going to take my time tonight, Sherlock, as I think that you would benefit in several ways from ending up with a sore arse. After that, I’m thinking that you’re due for a couple of nice long days in a row of getting well pounded, until you’re so raw that you’re not sure that you can take any more, don’t you? Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to ask for with your appalling behavior today?” Sherlock was still pushing back against John, a fact which John savored increasingly as he worked himself up with what he was deciding was in store for his childish, irritating flatmate.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock hissed, fingers twisted in the duvet, clearly responding to John’s threats. “I want that. Please do that to me.”

“Good boy, Sherlock, it’s better to just admit it.” John was riding him now with all the ferocity he could muster, which was saying something. “For the rest of this weekend, when you hear me say ‘bend over,’ I better see your bare arse in the air within ten seconds. I don’t care what else you’re doing. I don’t care if your _experiment_ is _time-sensitive_. I don’t even care if you have a case that you’d like to work on. You have deliberately provoked me, so now you’re going to get what you asked for. If I don’t think that you’re being convincingly prompt in responding to my requests, or respectful of my person in general, I swear to god, Sherlock, you will look back fondly on the tenderness of the beating that I just gave you with my belt. Do we have an understanding?”

By the end of this speech, Sherlock was moaning and writhing against the bed, but John noticed that he didn’t try to touch himself without permission. Apparently he was remembering John’s directions from the couple of times before when John had gotten extra rough.

 _“Do we have an understanding?”_ John’s open hand landed hard against Sherlock’s arse, spanning several of the angry welts. He’d spent his entire adult life as a doctor and a soldier… he didn’t appreciate having to repeat himself.

“ _Yes_ , John!” Sherlock cried loudly, and John winced to realize that the entire building now knew that Sherlock and John had made some sort of agreement. Ah well. It was one of the costs of keeping this lunatic somewhat in hand.

“Good. Very good.” John was good as his word, giving Sherlock a long, thorough fucking that left them both sweat-slick and sticky with come by the time that John was done. All throughout, John’s strong hands alternately soothed and tormented the welts on Sherlock’s back. Sure enough, Sherlock’s own eventual orgasm was cataclysmic, as John had known it would be after the day-long build-up and the beating and the rough sex. Sherlock spurted onto John’s duvet, his eyes rolling back in his head as he babbled his gratitude to John for understanding what he needed and his extended, abject apologies for pissing John off so badly in the pursuit of it. This was one of the few times that Sherlock’s apologies sounded more than perfunctory.

John didn’t feel like hanging around for their version of cuddling, not after the day that Sherlock had put him through. He stripped off his jeans and shirt -- now stained with both of their fluids and a few smears of blood from the beating -- and decided on the shower.

Sherlock, left without direction from John, did nothing, merely laying on the bed in the debauched condition that John had left him, his pale eyes as always drawn to John’s uncovered scar. John turned and raked his hazel gaze over Sherlock from his tousled, sweat-damp curls down to the delicate bas relief of the veins on top of his bare feet. The look was appreciative, and John smiled down at his splayed flatmate and playmate.

“I don’t think you’re going to enjoy this nearly as much as you think you are,” he told Sherlock ominously, then left the room without another word.

Sherlock gazed after him, a slow smile creeping across his thoughtful face. 

* * *

Sherlock actually did quite well all through Saturday. He behaved like a perfect gentleman all day, and it was clear that John had successfully broken Sherlock of his current streak of childishness the previous night. And yet, as John watched Sherlock throughout the day, paying cabbies and treating waitresses with impeccable manners and cutting his eyes toward John whenever he thought that John wasn’t looking, he found that he was still bothered by something from last night. Something… was unresolved, for him, and maybe for Sherlock. John thought about it, in between all the sex.

Sherlock certainly seemed to be appreciating being kept on a short leash -- clearly John was offering some excellent relief from the curses of his boredom right now -- but John didn’t think that either he or Sherlock would care to try to keep this going indefinitely. It was, however, a place that John would be happy to revisit regularly if it helped keep Sherlock’s fractious brain in line.

In the meantime, John was also enjoying himself immensely -- he hadn’t had an immersive sexual _holiday_ like this, with a willing and eager partner, in many, many years. John spent all of Saturday getting his dick wet whenever the impulse struck him, including two different restroom blowjobs while they were out and about. He didn’t even bother to get off half the time. He just loved being entitled to shove Sherlock to his knees and stick his prick into him whenever and however he wanted to.

Every one of the three times that John told Sherlock to orgasm, he came so hard that he dissolved into incoherent babbling before he went subverbal for a while in John’s arms. John may not have had Sherlock’s powers of observation, but he didn’t fail to notice that Sherlock was in a semi-erect state for much of the day, obviously anticipating the next encounter. It was quite a remarkable change from the asexual virgin that he’d lived with for all those years.

The restroom encounters also revealed to John just how fully his tedious, years-long conflict over his heterosexuality had morphed into something new, a kind a mad glee that after all these years, all the rumors were finally true. Somewhere along the way he had come to be amused instead of aggravated by how many of the lurid rumors about them had been turning into reality.

In fact, John had begun paying more attention to some of the speculation about them since Sherlock had implemented his first experiment with John, and he was sometimes taken about by how close to the mark a few such opiners were coming. There were many who implied that John was some sort of military-trained service top who knocked Sherlock around in order to keep him in line as an upright member of the human race. John supposed that, given this weekend, that was turning out to be fairly prescient. He couldn’t help but wonder which other outrageous rumors would become reality as this bizarre thing continued to play out. It apparently also left him with a kink for public sex with Sherlock Holmes... he didn’t really want to be caught, but fuck, the thought made him rock hard. For a moment he’d actually feared creaming his jeans in the restaurant until he managed to drag Sherlock away from the table.

This creature, John’s creature -- Sherlock Holmes -- was _amazing_. John had known it from the moment he met him. He was brilliant and gorgeous and it turned out that he utterly belonged to John, indeed had never had a sexual impulse in his life before falling in love with John and was now only capable of functioning sexually with John by his side to ground him. He was a phenomenon, often not like other people but also capable of so many things that other people could not do. If Sherlock’s idea of a sexual relationship was a little non-traditional, who was John to complain? He’d thought he was straight for almost forty years and then was gobsmacked when it turned out that the love of his life was a semi-autistic, asexual _man_.

John spent himself inside of that man for a final time in Sherlock’s own room on Saturday night. Then he fingered Sherlock gently until he spurted on the bedsheets, clinging to John and moaning wordlessly. Afterwards Sherlock nuzzled into John -- it was funny, Sherlock’s occasional feminine qualities had not escaped John’s notice, and yet this was one of the most dangerous, deadly and capable men in the world. John supposed that the strange paradox was part of what had him so ridiculously enthralled. But at any rate, Sherlock nestled against John in bed in exactly the same fashion that women always had, curling up under his arm, nose in his armpit, curls pressed against John’s cheek.

John was surprised when Sherlock almost instantly fell asleep and began to lightly snore. John was actually the one to lay awake for once, watching Sherlock’s relaxed features and contemplating exactly what the hell he was supposed to do with Sherlock, the world’s most complicated bottom.

Eventually John slept heavily, though he opened one eye at his usual wake-up hour of 6:30, with Sherlock still snug against the length of him, his top leg cocked at such an extreme angle that it was draped over John’s hip. John shifted Sherlock into a better position and went back to sleep, then was awakened again several hours later (judging by the change in the light) by Sherlock’s urgent tones.

“ _John_. It’s _Mycroft_.”

John opened his eyes. Sherlock was fully awake, staring at John in some sort of appeal.

“What?” John hadn’t had to come to full battlefield wakefulness at a moment’s notice in many years, and right now all he wanted was a cup of coffee. “What about Mycroft?”

“He’s here, he wants to see me.”

John had the first inkling of what this was about. Inwardly he grinned. “So? Then go. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“ _Sherlock_?” Mycroft’s voice definitely sounded from _inside_ of the flat. John fully realized what was about to happen. This was going to be interesting, wasn’t it.

He guessed that it was inevitable. It had to happen sometime, the way they were carrying on.

“I _said_ I’d be right out, Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled loudly, looking at John with a beseeching look that was utterly out-of-place on the proud features of Sherlock Holmes.

John couldn’t help it. He laughed. “I said _go_ , Sherlock. Your brother is expecting you to receive him. Now. Be polite. You know I’m still not putting up with your usual tantrums today.”

Sherlock was clearly instantly furious, but bit it back as best he could. “ _John_. If Mycroft sees us both coming out of my room at this hour of the morning, looking like this… you can’t go out there after me. Promise me you’ll stay in here.”

John sat up and ran his hands through his hair, yawning. “Sherlock, we are absolutely not going to slink around our own flat to hide that we’re shagging. Go out there, act like an adult, and tell him it’s none of his bloody business if he asks.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, which John ignored, instead slowly standing and making his way toward Sherlock’s bathroom. He wanted to brush his teeth before he was confronted with a man who represented the entire British government, who was also about to figure out that John Watson was fucking his little brother. He could feel Sherlock weighing his options -- direct conflict with John, who still had him on a short leash, or letting Mycroft figure out their new... arrangement. In the end, Sherlock left the room without any word but with stiff shoulders, and John exhaled.

After brushing his teeth, he slipped into last night’s jeans and jumper, feeling a little less at a disadvantage than he would be in his dressing gown. Then John took a deep breath, emerged from Sherlock’s bedroom into the living area and made a beeline for the burbling coffeepot.

“Hello, Mycroft,” John mumbled to the tall figure who stood by the fireplace, and suppressed a smile as for the first time he saw Mycroft Holmes look openly stunned, just for a brief second before he managed to school his features back into their usual faux-pleasant mask.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft replied, his tone quite arch. He opened his mouth, _then closed it_. John had only seen Mycroft at a loss for words once before, when John had confronted him about selling Sherlock out to Moriarty. It was delicious to see it again under less dire circumstances.

John said nothing, just poured and prepared himself a large mug of coffee, then turned and regarded Sherlock over its edge for a long moment while he got the first few mouthfuls on board his sluggish system. Sherlock perched in his chair, pale with fury, glowering at them both in equal measures.

Finally Mycroft seemed to find his voice. “John, I don’t mean to be indelicate, but it appears that there has been quite a change in the nature of your relationship with my brother.”

Boy, they were going to have _fun_ today.

John refocused from the sulking Sherlock to Mycroft. “What? A change? Obviously. And if Sherlock hasn’t told you yet, it’s none of your business, Mycroft.”

Mycroft was undeterred. “The welfare of my brother is always my business. As this is his first foray into these matters, I’m not entirely sure whether to expect his usual poor judgment of him or not.”

John looked nonplussed. “You’ve known me for -- it must be going on five years now, Mycroft. Surely you’ve decided whether or not I’m good for Sherlock by now?”

Mycroft pursed his lips with a look of disapproval. “Yes, we all acknowledge that _you_ have been good for Sherlock, obviously. What I don’t know is whether _sex_ is good for him.”

John held up one hand authoritatively, a troubled look on his face. “Not one more word on the subject, Mycroft. Do you know whose advice I am not interested in regarding this matter? I’ll give you one and only one guess.”

He heard Sherlock snort in amusement. Sulking or not, Sherlock simply couldn’t resist John when John was baiting Mycroft. Mycroft looked annoyed, tapping his umbrella against the floor.

“I don’t see why we can’t discuss this like adults,” he said.

John finished his coffee and refilled the mug. “Because it’s private. Period. End of discussion. Lovely weather we’ve been having these last few days, isn’t it? Are you here about a case, or to make sure that Sherlock is still clean?”

With obvious displeasure Mycroft allowed himself to be steered onto other topics, but Sherlock never emerged from his shell, and shortly Mycroft departed with a cranky farewell between the two brothers.

John was ready for the subsequent fight. Sherlock had clearly been stewing through the entire visit. He turned back from closing the door behind Mycroft and found Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room.

“Mycroft is my _brother_.” Sherlock bit off each word, his cheeks flushed with anger. “I have _never_ interfered in your relationship with Harry.”

John arched a brow at Sherlock, and Sherlock made a sound of exasperation. “I have never _directly_ interfered, the way you just did,” he amended angrily. “You can’t blame me merely for saying things that are, technically, all true.”

John was clearly unperturbed. “Sherlock, do you know what just happened? Mycroft drew some conclusions that are, ‘ _technically, all true_ ,’” he mimicked. “So what? Who cares? He’s not going to run and tell your parents, you know. Not that your parents would care either.”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to sound off further, than clearly caught himself just in time and closed it with a clink. It was an act of some effort to reign himself in, and he took a long moment to try to collect his thoughts. John waited patiently for the real concern. “He’s going to know how weak this makes me, with you,” Sherlock finally said slowly, his voice tight.

John closed the space between them, his hands tucked in his pockets. “You know that it’s always concerned Mycroft that he’s never seen you want anyone. He’s lived in fear that someone like Irene Adler would come along and take advantage of you because you were so out-of-touch with your own desires.”

Sherlock shook his head obstinately. “You don’t know that. Mycroft would never speak to you of such things.”

John peered into Sherlock’s face, searching for something. “Not in as many words, no. But he’s been trying to deduce the nature of our friendship since the day that you and I met, and he’s forever desperate for me to slip and tell him whether you’ve been physical with Irene or anyone else. Mycroft has always believed that you were repressed, not indifferent. And he’s always thought it was a weakness of yours. Off the record, I’m inclined to agree with him. Look at us.”

Sherlock glared at him for that… John could hardly chastise him for a look. “Frankly, I shudder to think of Mycroft putting any thought into what I do or do not do with my prick in the first place,” Sherlock snapped.

“He had to know eventually, Sherlock. We live together, we shag around the clock sometimes. He’s probably got this flat bugged, doesn’t he? Eugh, that’s a disturbing thought.”

Sherlock was definitely not thawing. His arms were crossed, and his eyes glittered furiously. John backed up, looking him over closely, judging him, judging the moment. John had spent almost every moment since Friday night thinking about where he wanted to take this before it was over. What he wanted from Sherlock; what he thought Sherlock needed from him.

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed. “You’re wondering if I’m about to give you an excuse or not. You have something you’re gagging for, but you don’t want to play your trump card too early.”

John looked annoyed. “Stop analyzing, Sherlock. That’s not your place right now.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. They both glanced around the flat quickly, instinctively orienting to the environment in the very instant that the moment turned explosive.

“Come on, what is it, John? It’s day three now, isn’t it, and here we are in a row over you humiliating me in front of Mycroft? You have something you’ve been saving up for me, we both know it.”

John shook his head. It really was just bloody irritating, dealing with a lover who bottomed like it was a chess game. It wouldn’t do, at all. With a sigh, he pulled his Sig from the back of his jeans, racked the slide with a well-practiced motion, and leveled it at Sherlock from where he stood.

They both went completely still, Sherlock’s eyes narrowing. Then a small smile crept onto his face. “Ah, yes, John. Well played.”

“Get on your knees, Sherlock,” John said calmly, appreciating as always the steadiness of his hand. “Hands behind your head.”

Sherlock was still for a moment, then complied with smooth motions. He always looked so graceful when he sank to his knees; John would bet his pension that it was on purpose. Sherlock was much more vain than he let on.

Sherlock spoke rapidly, precisely. “You racked the slide, and I can see from my new position that there is a magazine in the gun. I have to assume there’s a live round in the chamber right now, don’t I? You have my complete attention, John.”

John didn’t look impressed. “Well, you see, that’s not my problem, Sherlock. I know how to _get_ your complete attention, obviously. The problem is _keeping_ your attention, in any meaningful way.” The gun was aimed at the center of Sherlock’s forehead, and he knew that they both knew it.

“It hasn’t seemed to present you with any insurmountable challenges so far,” Sherlock quipped. Even from here John could see Sherlock’s pupils blown wide against his striking pale irises.

“I don’t want to have to take you down every time. If you need a beating to straighten out your head, you just bloody well tell me. Or, hell, Sherlock, I’m not a pansy, just throw a clean punch. I just don’t want you terrorizing innocent waitresses. Besides, we both know that that’s not all that this is about.” John did have to admit, it was lovely -- almost intoxicating, really -- to have all of Sherlock’s attention during a conversation for once.

Sherlock gave him a slow smile. “Yes, we do. But you’re not going to shoot me, John.” He still hadn’t twitched a muscle, however.

“Ah, yes. _That_. Obviously we both know I’m not planning to kill you, but we both also know what happens when there’s a loaded gun in the room. This isn’t about murderous intent, Sherlock. This is about _trust_.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “All right. Trust. You know I trust you, my dear Watson. What do you want me to do?”

John looked him over. “Take off your shirt.”

Sherlock quickly unbuttoned the expensive fabric and tossed the shirt aside, then put his hands back behind his neck. The position emphasized the long, lean lines of his triceps, delts and pecs, all of which John longed to trace. With the gun, or with his fingertips. Or with his tongue. Whatever.

_Not gay. You’re funny, Watson._

Instead of indulging himself, however, John advanced slowly. “Now, let me ask you this, Sherlock.” He placed his second hand under his dominant one for extra stability. He didn’t generally need it, but it would make it harder for Sherlock to grapple the gun if he decided to do something stupid while John was within arm’s reach. Sherlock didn’t look inclined to take the chance -- they both knew that with them each on full alert, the outcome of a struggle would be unpredictable at best.

“What if I decided to put a stop to your childish behavior by making you regret it here and now, so that you’re never even tempted to try it a second time?” John lowered the pistol away from Sherlock’s face as he drew closer, instead planting the muzzle firmly against his left shoulder. Exactly where John’s own wound was.

The threat was obvious. Sherlock’s expression was carefully blank.

“What would actually happen, Sherlock, if I put a bullet in you right now, right here, just to teach you a lesson? You know you would never tell Lestrade or anyone else how it happened, and they’d patch you up at the hospital, you’d get yourself a little drug holiday, and I’d finally get a few days’ break from your bullshit.”

Sherlock’s lips parted slightly as he stared ahead and John cocked his head, pressing the muzzle against Sherlock’s shoulder to keep him aware of its presence. “I’d be a little more careful with you than the guy who got me was, so I’d let you off without the aortal nick,” John explained. “That was the part that really put my life on the line, which isn’t quite the effect that I’d be going for here. It’s a good thing for you that I’m a doctor.”

Sherlock was breathing fast and light, and the bulge in his trousers was significant. “It might put a slight strain on our relationship going forward,” Sherlock mused.

“Oh really?” John’s own tone was utterly dry. “More of a strain than faking your suicide _and making me watch_ put on it, do you think?”

Sherlock blinked and looked up at John, past approximately twenty centimeters of cold steel. “You’re angry about _that_ today?” He looked intrigued. “Still, or again?”

John didn’t really want to go down that road, so he didn’t know why he’d opened the topic. He decided on a change in tactics. “Or I could make an impression _this_ way. Tell me, Sherlock, in the course of all your adventures, have you ever had the muzzle of a gun in your mouth before?”

Sherlock went white. He didn’t really wince, he never winced, but John knew every micro-expression that crossed that face. Sherlock didn’t like the idea any more than any sane man did.

But he also liked the idea. John knew it. Knew Sherlock.

John lifted the muzzle of the gun to Sherlock’s mouth and stared into his eyes.

“Open. Now,” he ordered, with utter calm.

John watched Sherlock considering this -- the utilitarian lines and menacing weight of the Sig, John’s apparent level of determination. John didn’t waver, didn’t doubt. He knew that he had Sherlock now if he just didn’t waver. Then Sherlock slowly, reluctantly opened that beautiful mouth of his, and John’s cock twitched against his thigh.

“Honestly, it doesn’t matter whether this is the first time or not,” John said conversationally, letting the metal clink against Sherlock’s perfect teeth. “I’ve found that it’s a moment that you can never _really_ get used to. Do you know how I know that, Sherlock? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not because of Afghanistan. No, it’s because of the years that I’ve spent at _your_ side. Moriarty’s gun, the night he strapped that Semtex on me. Some asshole henchman once. I don’t recall ever seeing that done to you. So I think it’s only fair, don’t you?”

Sherlock was watching John closely, eyes wide. It was becoming clearer to them both that John had something to work out just as much as Sherlock did. John thought for a moment about whether he was having a good time. He decided that the answer was… complicated. Both men had straining erections at this point, that was for damn sure. John thought briefly about all the times he had shot people with this very gun -- the last one on Sherlock’s behalf, on the night that had sealed the deal for John -- and he knew Sherlock could see it in his eyes.

John smiled and shook his head, gazing down at Sherlock on his knees with John’s gun in his mouth. He was, frankly, almost achingly beautiful, and John’s heart and cock both swelled at the same time. “ _You_ bring this out in me, you know. I was never like this before. I would never _dream_ of doing this to anyone else but you.”

Sherlock couldn’t answer -- not with the barrell of John’s gun between his teeth -- but John saw the knowing look in Sherlock’s eye and he laughed. Sherlock may or may not like the gun in his mouth, but he certainly liked knowing that John was right.

Then John let the humor fall away as he pulled the gun out of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and lucid, the way they only got during the most intense moments during sex and when they were in immediate mortal danger. John supposed this counted as both.

“John --”

“Shut up now.”

John moved the gun slowly, tracing the line of Sherlock’s jaw with it, pressing the muzzle up under the ridge of bone. His finger rested steady beside the trigger that would have answered Sherlock’s question about whether there was a round in that chamber once and for all. John felt his cock twitch as he trailed the muzzle down Sherlock’s throat, over his Adam’s apple, flush against his sternum. Over his heart. They were both panting. John’s eyes followed the muzzle as it moved over mouth-watering expanses of Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock’s were fixed straight ahead on the far wall.

Then John looked up to Sherlock’s face a moment, and Sherlock must have noticed because he looked back at John. Their eyes met -- pale blue and dark hazel -- and the temperature in the room seemed to rise another ten degrees. Sherlock was stripped to the waist and the room wasn’t particularly warm, but the planes of his bare, narrow chest showed a sheen of light perspiration. John felt his own pulse hammering in his veins. They were both so fucking _alive_ right now.

“I could kill you, Sherlock,” John told him a soft, thoughtful voice. “Right now. No more great detective.”

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t flinch from it at all, just gazed up at him with those beautiful clear eyes. “Tell me, John, do you ever think that maybe you just… _should_?”

John looked like he was giving the question sincere consideration. “Not really. But it’s possible that once or twice you’ve gotten me to seriously consider _exactly_ how good it would feel.”

Sherlock looked intrigued. “Really? And did I accomplish that by pissing you off or by turning you on?”

The muzzle moved gently over Sherlock’s cheekbone and Sherlock demonstrated a whole new level of stillness. John spoke: “Pop quiz, then, since you’re at the head of the class: which do you think?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, thinking for a few seconds. “Knowing you, I submit that these were occasions on which I managed to do both simultaneously.”

John gave him an approving look. “True that. Though back then, I was still in a lot of denial about being turned on.”

“Then why did you fantasize about making me suck you off before you did it?” Sherlock asked, only daring to let a trace of his smugness show due to… present circumstances.

John actually blanched at this deduction for a moment before he laughed, a sound caught exactly halfway between amusement and bitterness. “Well. I _told_ myself it was a power thing, not a sex thing. That's how we rationalize gay behavior in the army.”

Sherlock’s eyes moved to the gun, then back to John’s. “And which one is this, John? Sex or power?”

“Oh, Sherlock. This is _definitely_ both.” John finally lifted the gun off of Sherlock’s skin and walked away with no apparent concern about turning his back. He sat down in his chair, placed the Sig on the table beside it, and looked at Sherlock. “Naked. Then tea. Now.”

Sherlock rose back to his feet with almost as much grace as he left them, his fingers making quick work of his belt buckle. “What are we doing then, John?”

John was unbuckling at the same time as Sherlock, but he only shoved his jeans down far enough to get his cock into his hand. He could tell that Sherlock was watching him closely out of the corner of his eye, but fortunately Sherlock didn’t allow it to disrupt the promptness with which he continued to obey John’s last set of orders.

Sherlock was delightfully un-self-conscious as he put on the kettle and pulled down the makings for John’s favorite tea. They watched each other openly, John’s hand moving lazily on his rock-hard dick. Sherlock was also pretty erect as he stood with his hip against the counter and his arms crossed, waiting for the water to boil.

“You’re going to bring me some tea,” John told Sherlock. “After that, you’re going to give me the most incredible blowjob of my entire life, and you’re going to do it with the feeling of a muzzle against your skull. And you are going to be silently, desperately hoping in your high-functioning sociopathic heart that my finger doesn’t twitch on the trigger when I come. Do you see how this is a trust game, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s cock responded visibly to John’s words, going from mostly-erect to swollen and darkening in color. His expression became intense, his laser-like focus now tightened in on John Watson.

“Yes, John.”

“Good, bring me my tea, then.”

“Yes, John.”

Sherlock wasted no time putting himself to work, and John slowly enjoyed his tea with his left hand, his right settled on top of the Sig on the table. He closed his eyes in contentment as Sherlock’s mouth closed over his taut glans, probing gently at his slit, Sherlock’s hand cupping John’s bollocks firmly. John took his time finishing his tea, and Sherlock paced himself accordingly, giving John’s cock leisurely, undemanding attention. It wasn’t until John’s teacup clinked on the table and John picked up the gun again that Sherlock really got down to business.

Sherlock looked up as he felt John lift the weight of the Sig. John smiled, just his everyday smile, and placed the muzzle at Sherlock’s temple. “Make this good, Sherlock,” John said encouragingly. “I want to know that you’re working _hard_ to make me happy.”

Sherlock’s wide eyes indicated both assent and determination, and John let him have his way for a bit, not worrying about anything other than the automatic tracking of the weapon in his hand, which John’s brain was perfectly capable of handling behind the scenes. He simply let himself enjoy Sherlock’s best efforts to please him, reflecting for not-the-first-time that an obsessive compulsive virgin who was a mind-bogglingly apt fast learner wasn’t a bad recipe for a rest-of-your-life kind of sexual partner.

After a suitable period of relaxation, John opened his eyes and examined Sherlock at work.

Sherlock was applying himself, certainly. He was sweating, flushed, _that_ mouth obscenely full of John’s thick cock. Sherlock was well past the point of being tidy about the slicks of saliva and pre-come across his chin and cheeks. John had now seen Sherlock in this state on a number of occasions, and no, he had never looked quite this freaked out. The cool weight of a muzzle against Sherlock’s skull seemed to be too much for even the self-proclaimed sociopath to stay sanguine about.

 _Thank god._ About bloody time.

It _was_ about time.

John reached out and carefully tangled the fingers of his left hand deep into Sherlock’s thick curls. He made a tight fist, establishing immediate and total dominance over the position of Sherlock’s head, and then he pushed down hard and slow, shoving the head of his cock past Sherlock’s palate and into the top of Sherlock’s throat, eliciting a hard gag reflex. John was ready for it, though, and kept Sherlock’s head pressed down firmly against it.

“Stop choking, you moron. I have a gun to your head.” John’s voice was hard, sharp. He knew that the order he was giving was one that would be next to impossible to obey -- he wondered if even Sherlock Holmes could do it.

And nearly gave an internal cheer when Sherlock once again rose to the occasion… John sighed loudly as he somehow felt Sherlock manage to relax his throat around the head of John’s cock. Sherlock’s entire body was trembling violently between John’s wide-spread thighs, but he managed to stop choking and hold his head relatively still.

Just for a moment, though. John knew that Sherlock wasn’t getting any air now. He raised both Sherlock’s head and the gun in parallel, pulling Sherlock’s mouth back enough for him to sputter inelegantly around his mouth full of cock, gasping around it for air. No one was dignified when choking on cock, not even Sherlock Holmes.

“Again,” announced John in satisfaction, and made good his word. He again shoved Sherlock’s head down, letting the muzzle of the Sig press hard into the soft skin at Sherlock’s temple when Sherlock inevitably gave at least a small shudder before he managed to get his gag reflex under control. Then, the not-breathing part. John let it stretch out just a little longer each time, carefully watching Sherlock for his level of panic. Finally, the merciful part… he let Sherlock breathe again, spit strung between his lips and John’s cock and Sherlock coughing wetly around him to re-oxygenate his brain. Then remembering the gun, and trying to cough without shaking, trying to keep his teeth off of John’s dick --

Five rounds. That was what it took. By then tears were leaking out of the outside corners of Sherlock’s eyes, and snot was shining on his upper lip. His eyes had begun rolling wildly toward the gun during the last few seconds before he was allowed his breath back, and he was clearly _just_ holding his panic at bay in all phases of the cycle. The constant choking was taking all his brainpower off line, the gun kept his blood flooded with adrenaline, and John was just hitting him too hard, too fast, with too much for even Sherlock to stay ahead of.

Sherlock Holmes finally looked bloody terrified.

John pulled Sherlock all the way off his cock, and let go of his hair. Sherlock sat back slightly, coughing and trying to compose himself. John prided himself on the fact that the gun was still 100% steady.

John knew that he was slightly flushed -- fair enough, it’d been a bit of a workout for him as well, especially in the concentration and coordination departments. But other than that, he looked -- and felt -- remarkably composed. He was rock hard, but he was in almost perfect control of himself. He was high on this moment, watching a messily debauched Sherlock snivel and gasp for composure.

John rested the gun on his knee. There was no way this Sherlock was going to rise up against him.

“I’ve got you now, don’t I, Sherlock?”

“ _Yes_.” Sherlock’s congested answer was immediate. He hung his head, hiccoughing.

“Finally broken you all the way down? You’re sure?”

Sherlock nodded miserably, swiping a hand across his wet face with no real noticeable improvement.

“Good. Then you choke yourself on me, now. _You_ do the work.”

John smiled when Sherlock’s eyes flew to his in alarm -- _you really want_?

 _Oh, I really do want this, Sherlock._ John knew Sherlock could see it in his eyes. Yes, John knew how hard what he was demanding was. How close to breaking Sherlock was.

“Do it, Sherlock. _Now_.” John tapped Sherlock on the cheek with the muzzle of the Sig, encouraging him, and Sherlock pulled himself together and got himself situated in the right posture and then he lowered his mouth over John’s cock, opening his throat and pushing himself down so that it blocked off his own airway.

John knew how hard he was pushing Sherlock, but he was equally certain that he was doing the right thing. He sat back again and let Sherlock apply himself, smiled when Sherlock really did force himself down on John’s cock so hard that air was no longer an option, and Sherlock somehow waited through his panic each time for John to tap him on the temple with the muzzle of the _presumably loaded gun_ to let him know that it was okay to let himself breathe again. It was an utter mindfuck, and John knew that Sherlock was finally, once-and-for-all relaxing into accepting that John Watson truly was, in actuality, his match in this way.

Three more rounds, of Sherlock choking himself on John’s cock. John was stunned that he hadn’t come yet, but also he’d never felt _this_ high from topping. Why hadn’t John started fucking blokes decades ago, if this was the kind of sex that you could get away with?

_Because it’s not blokes, it’s Sherlock. You had no bloody idea what this bloke could be like._

John again eased Sherlock back off his cock. Sherlock was weeping openly now, no longer even trying to fight it. John thought that, for the first time, he was seeing Sherlock Holmes completely undone, his expression unedited. He was laid bare. It was a beautiful sight.

John took a deep breath and swallowed. “Sherlock. Look at me.”

Sherlock took a moment to collect himself again, first getting the gasping for air under control. John watched this with open appreciation and admiration.

Finally Sherlock braced his hands on his knees and raised his eyes to John’s, and John’s breath caught in his throat at what he saw there. He’d been quite sure of himself, quite sure of Sherlock in all this, but it was quite another thing to actually see it.

Sherlock’s eyes shone with gratitude, and though he was no longer sobbing, there were still tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. “ _Thank you_ , John,” Sherlock rasped.

John smiled and held the Sig out, toward Sherlock but not aiming at him. Sherlock understood instantly what was called for, and he bowed his head and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to the muzzle of the weapon that had more than once saved his life, and had today stripped him completely bare to its owner.

John had doled out violence on many occasions because he believed that it was in some way the right thing to do, to protect someone or to prevent someone else from being hurt. He’d never expected -- no good soldier _expected_ \-- to be thanked. But seeing Sherlock’s gesture of respect and affection to the one material item in this world that felt to John like it was almost a piece of himself -- he swallowed hard against a lump in his throat at the same time that he felt his erection swell.

Sherlock was still and silent as John considered him, resting the Sig on his thigh in his right hand, and reaching out his left to stroke Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock’s face was a mess, but his expression was open and soft in a way that John had never seen before. He knew that after everything that had happened, that both of their bodies were swollen with want and impatient for their climaxes. But not quite yet.

John took a deep breath. He’d spent two years wrestling with unsaid words. He would not make the same mistakes twice.

John’s hand stilled on Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock looked up at him, perhaps sensing the sudden shift in mood. “You can never, ever leave me again, the way you did before,” John told Sherlock seriously. He had not said these words, this clearly before.

Sherlock’s eyes were bright. “I know that, John. I won’t.”

“Do you understand why I’m angry about it again now?”

Sherlock studied the nuances of John’s expression. “Because now that we’re lovers, you think of me as yours. Losing me again would be even worse. John, I’ll say it as many times as you need me to. I won’t do it again.”

That seemed to appease John for a moment, and he stroked a steady finger across Sherlock’s forehead, down his cheekbone. Then he mirrored the same touch with his right hand, but this hand was full of blued metal. The muzzle traced over Sherlock’s brow and cheekbone as lovingly as John’s fingers had done, the two men’s eyes locked all the while.

“And this… this is really what you want, Sherlock? To be mine like this? This certainly wasn’t what you meant to be proposing when you offered me that first blowjob, was it?”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered even as his pupils tracked the gun. “Well. A boy can dream.”

John actually laughed at that, he couldn’t help it.

“This is exactly what I hoped for, John, but I was pretty sure that I couldn’t just ask for it outright when you were still hung up on whether a blowjob was going to make you gay.” Sherlock glanced around then a bit, at the gun and the tea and the flat. “I don’t know that I could have predicted these exact details -- I assumed the gun would have been a step too far for you --”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John cut off the monologue.

“Yes, John.”

John lazily fisted his erection again in his left hand, and Sherlock’s eyes suddenly had a single focus of attention.

“Now, Sherlock,” John suddenly said firmly.

Sherlock sat up straight, all attention. His eyes were still fixed on John’s fingers as they squeezed and pulled at his cock, thumb moving over his leaking slit.

“As we’ve already established, you’re not going to be permitted to get away with the same level of childishness. I will be tolerant when we are on cases and when you have problems, but you are going to find that there are lines that I will not permit you to cross anymore. If you expect this level of attention from me, then you’re going to need me to be a little less perpetually pissed off at you than I’m used to being. Nod if you understand this.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I will consider myself entitled to correct your behavior when you fail to behave appropriately. As I have done this weekend. You will endure this correction with good grace. As you have done this weekend.”

Sherlock nodded. John took a slow, deep breath.

“Finally, this is it, Sherlock. This is the real deal. We are not boyfriends, we are not gay married, but this thing is it, for both of us. I don’t meet a girl and settle down; you don’t jaunt off for two years on end without a word. Otherwise, I _cannot_ commit to take care of you like this. You cannot drive me, manipulate me, seduce me and then provoke me into admitting that yes, you are mine, and yes, I want you, and then leave me. Or I swear to god, Sherlock, I may kill you myself next time.”

The threat had a little extra heft with John’s hand resting on his Sig. Sherlock’s eyes shone brightly, and his only answer was to lean forward slightly, straining toward John but not given permission to move.

John nodded, once.

Sherlock descended on John’s cock like a man possessed, and John let Sherlock soothe himself with John’s smells and tastes for a while before coaxing him back into something resembling a useful rhythm. They were both on hair triggers now, and almost as soon as Sherlock was giving him something steady to work with, John felt the first signs of impending orgasm on the horizon. John smiled and raised the Sig, resting the muzzle against Sherlock’s curls.

“We still have a question that we’re waiting to answer,” John reminded Sherlock. “This is a trust game. Are John Watson’s hands so steady that he can come with his finger on the trigger and not blow Sherlock Holmes’ brains out?”

Sherlock moaned loudly around John’s cock, taking John as deeply as he could without further abusing his wrecked throat. It was okay, John was no longer intent on choking Sherlock. Now he just wanted to come in him.

John was pleased to see that a genuine sweat had sprung back up on Sherlock’s laboring brow.  He let himself ride the waves of pleasure that were washing out through his central nervous system from the root of his cock.

Oh god, he was going to come hard.

He almost regretted that it might make it difficult to notice Sherlock’s response.

“ _Sherlock_ \--” John stuttered in warning, his hips tightening hard in the chair, the muzzle of the Sig still moving in perfect time with Sherlock’s bobbing head.

Sherlock was shaking hard, John could feel it, Sherlock’s long, lanky form vibrating against the insides of John’s spread thighs. John was breathing in a tightly controlled combat pattern that kept him from having to gasp, but he knew that the point of inevitability was galloping toward them…

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” John screamed as he began to come, his finger tightening on the trigger.

 _Clang_. The thud of the hammer, dropping, as John’s orgasm crashed his hard-drive and gave all his peripherals a sudden hard reboot.

He saw Sherlock flinch, and though Sherlock Holmes could probably process the fact that that loud noise hadn’t been anywhere near loud enough to mean that he was dead faster than anyone else in the world, there was still a moment of sheer panic. John was coming, and laughing, and sliding the Sig onto the table and grasping at Sherlock who had reared back away from John in his shock, and who had also started orgasming.

It wasn’t clear if Sherlock started coming before or after he’d sorted out that he wasn’t going to die. But he was reeling his way through his climax, John clinging to him, and before the end he had joined John in the mad, breathless laughter that had overtaken him.

They collapsed to the floor, hands gripping each other. Sherlock was swearing in several languages, none of them English, and John wasn’t exactly sure when the spasms of orgasm had passed and when the abdominal spasms of helpless laughter had taken over. Sherlock punched John in the arm, hard. “You _bastard_ ,” Sherlock managed to grind out between his fits of laughter, gasping for air.

They were sticky all over, ejaculate everywhere. They rolled to their backs and lay there for a long moment, waiting for the waves of their madness to slowly peter out.

“Christ,” said Sherlock.

“Fuck,” repeated John.

John rubbed his hand over his chest, and was so grossed out by the level of biological filth that he and Sherlock had managed to generate with their lovemaking that he decided that there was nothing for it but to revel in it.

Sherlock’s breathing was slowly returning to normal. “Do you know what made it so fucking convincing, you lout?”

“That you think of me as such a safety freak that you didn’t believe I’d pull the trigger even on an unloaded gun?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes, that’s it in one.”

“I checked the chamber and then put an empty magazine in the gun, Sherlock. Guns can’t manifest rounds out of nowhere. I’m not a superstitious man.”

Sherlock rolled his head on his shoulders, then rolled up on his side to look at John.

“So, my dear Watson, tell me: _did_ you pull the trigger on purpose? Or do we now actually know the answer to the question?”

John grinned. “Oh, Sherlock. I’m certainly not telling you _that_. Because I have the rest of our lives to try to keep you in line, and I may want to play this game again some day. And if so, _next_ time, I’m going to have you load the gun yourself.”

 


End file.
